Caged
by Emihn
Summary: After narrowly avoiding death, Crowley is forced to search for Purgatory on his own. He will face witches, monsters-some allies, others enemies-and his own nature. AU.
1. A Change of Plans

_The end._

Like bells, the words rang through Crowley's mind. He was on his knees, blood on his lips, devil's trap hanging crimson overhead. It was the end of an uneasy alliance, of a careful lie, of whatever good will remained from all he had done for them while the Devil walked the earth. Doubt's mocking words in his head said it was the end of his life as well. Yet nothing happened to Crowley that he could not twist to his advantage—of that he was certain. Even trapped and staring down that cruel knife, he knew he would escape, because that was what he always did. He survived.

Crowley allowed a bit of fear to seep into his expression, but beneath it he was calculating. The petty demon whose name he had forgotten stepped into the trap, and said something to the Winchesters that he barely heard. He sized up her position, the knife, her likely next move, the hate and triumph in her eyes. She thought she had already won.

She raised the knife. "This is for Lucifer, you pompous little—"

In a swift motion, Crowley caught her wrist and kicked her legs out from under her. She fell with a grunt and dropped the knife, which he snatched up before she could react. Crowley stood and smirked at the boys, who were staring at him in horror. With a flick of his wrist the knife flew up, embedding itself in the ceiling and breaking the devil's trap with a flash of light. "That's better," he remarked as the trap's weight dissipated. He swept both arms outward and the boys flew in opposite directions, slamming into the walls. As Crowley reached up, the knife flew back into his grasp, just in time for the demon on the floor to stand. She recoiled at the blade less than an inch from her mouth. "You don't know torture, you little insect," Crowley snapped.

At that moment he felt something shift. A flutter of wings, the scent of ozone, and a suffocating presence filled the room. He turned to see the angel Castiel, in his usual harried-looking vessel and worn trench coat.

"Leave them alone," Castiel ordered.

Crowley swallowed his loathing for a moment. "Castiel," he remarked. "Haven't seen you all season. You're the cavalry now?"

Castiel's blue eyes were unblinking. "Put the knife down."

"You that bossy in Heaven?" Crowley smiled, veiling his growing concern with wit. "Hear you're losing out to Raphael. Whole affair makes Vietnam look like a roller derby."

Castiel raised his arm to point something at Crowley's head. Crowley realized with surprise that it was the Colt, its barrel gleaming. He felt pinned by its narrow metal gaze. He had faced it once before, but at that time he knew it was empty. This time…

_This is the end, Crowley._

From over against the wall, Dean looked puzzled—or at least more puzzled than usual. "Cas, how did you—"

"It is of no importance," Castiel barked. "If you had not been so careless I would not have had to look for it."

"Sure you know how to use that thing?" said Crowley, his mind spinning. He had to get away, but that damnable spell was blocking him. He began to work through the ritual to undo it in his head. "Better be careful, you might hurt yourself."

"The only thing I will hurt is _you_," said Castiel. "Now put the knife down."

Slowly, Crowley lowered the blade. "Is this you boys' idea of poetic justice?" he continued, buying time. "I gave that gun to you. You'd still be chasing your tails if it weren't for—"

"Can you restore Sam's soul or not?" the angel interrupted.

Crowley gazed at him for a moment, still reciting the reversal ritual in his mind. It was nearly finished. He snapped his fingers to release Sam and Dean. "If I can help out in…any other—"

"Answer him!" Dean shouted, taking a step forward.

Crowley glanced at the brothers. Dean was glowering, and Sam's expression was coldly blank, with a hint of cruelty in his eyes. Crowley wished he had never heard of them. He looked back at Castiel and felt the faintest relief as he finished the ritual. "I can't," he said finally, hating to admit his failing a second time.

_The end._

Castiel pulled the trigger.

Click of metal, hint of flame, searing gunpowder—

But Crowley was already gone.

* * *

Crowley had not been thinking of a specific location, only of getting away, so he was slightly surprised to find himself in a park. After a moment he recognized it as Ash Hill Park near New York City, a place he had occasionally taken his hound to—at night, of course, since the hound was invisible to most humans. It was a beautiful, quiet place, where he felt as safe as he ever did. There were a few people around, joggers and the like, but no one seemed to have noticed a man in a black suit appear in their midst.

Exhausted, Crowley sank down onto a bench. Everything had gone wrong so quickly. Undoubtedly the Winchesters and their angel friend would kill the alphas he had collected. It had been such a waste of time and effort—the few bits of information he got from the monsters had led nowhere, leaving him no closer to finding Purgatory than he had been a year before. The monsters either knew nothing or had wills of iron, his demon underlings were by turns incompetent or traitorous—and meanwhile Lucifer and Michael were barely trapped in a cage whose seals had already been broken.

Becoming king of Hell had been Crowley's goal for many years. He wanted power, but more than that he wanted the freedom to do as he pleased, to be under no one's command. Ages of conniving, political maneuvering, and sheer hard work had positioned him to take the throne after Lilith's death and Lucifer's defeat. Soon after becoming king, however, Crowley discovered that _staying_ king was the hard part.

His botched attempt to remove Sam Winchester from the cage had shown Crowley the limits of his new power. He might have been able to remove Sam entirely if the boy had been alone in there, but with Michael and Lucifer fighting it was impossible. Someone with a bit more power—God, Death, perhaps the angel Raphael if he gathered enough heavenly artifacts—could pluck one or both of them from the cage. If that happened, the apocalypse would start again in earnest, and Lucifer's allies would crawl back out of the cracks they were hiding in. Between them and the monsters, Crowley would be forced to fight half of creation for his life.

Again.

Crowley sighed and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. Everything in his life was tenuous, and only more power could make him more secure—hence the search for Purgatory. There were monsters as old as Earth there, the very progenitors of all other monsters. Capturing the soul of one of these elder monsters might give him enough additional strength to bar the cage more securely, ensuring his reign—and survival. It was not a very good plan, but the nearly open cage made Crowley nervous, and there were only so many possible ways to close it.

But how was he going to find Purgatory now?

First things first, though. Crowley sat up straight, pulled out his iPhone, and dialed one of his demon commanders, Gamboge.

The other demon answered after a single ring. "Afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Had a bit of a problem at the prison in Missouri. Quite a mess, actually. The Winchesters," he growled. "I need you to send a little team over there for clean-up. Wait an hour or two to be sure the Hardy boys are gone."

"Of course," said Gamboge. "Would you like the alphas moved to a different facility?"

"No. Kill any that are still alive. Torch the place afterwards."

"But sir, if you don't mind my saying…we don't know where Purgatory is yet. We were making progress, too—I heard Temeluchus is on the trail of an alpha rugaru."

Crowley's green eyes narrowed. "He's supposed to be tracking down Lucifer loyalists. If things pan out the way I suspect they will, we're about to experience more attacks from them. Of course, if Temeluchus had been _doing_ _his_ _job_ instead of chasing a cannibal we might not have this problem."

"I…I apologize, sir. I'll tell him."

"Good. And forget Purgatory. I'll find it myself."

"…Sir?"

Crowley sighed. "Do I need to spell everything out for you people? _I am going to find Purgatory. If I have anything further to say on the matter, I will let you know!_" Crowley's raised voice got the attention of a woman pushing a stroller, but one withering look from him made her skitter away like a spider.

"Of…of course, sir…" Gamboge said quickly. "I'll go over to the prison right away."

"Yes, you will," Crowley snapped, then hung up and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

At that moment he felt a strange tug, as if someone had grabbed his shoulder. Crowley knew that feeling all too well—he was being summoned. He had created a shield around himself after the fiasco with Bobby Singer, but he could still tell when someone was trying. Closing his eyes, Crowley focused on where the call was coming from. It was not an Enochian summoning ritual, because those were far stronger and caused physical pain. That meant it was not Castiel, fortunately. A standard goetic evocation, then. But who…

Witches. Crowley was sure of it.

He shook his head and sighed. Of course. As a rule, witches were nosy and obnoxious, and a few were just powerful enough to be a threat. Powerful enough to…

A smile crept across Crowley's face as something occurred to him. A skilled witch could possibly divine Purgatory's location. It might be a long shot, but it was worth trying—and nothing else had worked so far.

Crowley stood and brushed off his suit. He would answer their summons, but not quite the way they expected. Grinning to himself, he vanished.


	2. Witch Way

The house was a plain, slate-blue Cape with black shutters, and a few sad-looking herbs growing along its foundation. All the curtains were drawn, but then it was rapidly getting dark out. Crowley walked up the worn brick pathway to the front door and rang the doorbell. He heard it echo inside the house, but no one came, so he rang it a second time. Finally he heard footsteps approaching. The door swung open slowly, revealing a tall woman with brown hair and a loose white shirt.

"Evening," said Crowley with a smile.

The woman frowned slightly. "Can I help you with something?"

"I don't know. You're the one who called me."

Her eyes widened, blood draining from her face. "You're…Crowley?"

"What, not impressive enough?" He glanced down at himself. "I wore a suit and everything."

"But we…you're not in the triangle."

Crowley shrugged. "Why should I be? They're so _confining_. Besides, it is rather rude to demand that I come see you. Who knows what I was in the middle of?"

The woman stared, seeming quite shaken now that the situation had begun to sink in. She took a step backward and closed the door.

"Whatever happened to hospitality?" Crowley muttered. With a wave of his hand the door swung open. He paused before stepping over the threshold to check the rug by the door. No devil's trap.

Amateurs.

The woman had already retreated into the living room, so Crowley went after her. He was met by three other women besides the first, all standing around candles and a goetic triangle drawn on the floor, looking confused.

"Hmm," Crowley said. "Been fiddling around with goetic magic, have we?" He rubbed away a corner of the triangle with his shoe, then wiped it off on the carpet with disgust. "Now, let's introduce ourselves. _I_ am Crowley. And _you_ are?"

A woman with short black hair opened her mouth and shut it again, while the rest only stared.

"Look," said Crowley, more sternly, "I'm being cordial. You lot tried to drag me here, and I had the courtesy to come willingly. Now tell me who you are and what you want, or I'll simply leave. Unless you irritate me further, in which case there'll be a bit of carnage first."

"All right, fine," said the woman who had answered the door. "I'm Laura Kemper."

"Natalie Parsons," said the black-haired woman.

"Jennifer LaCroix," said the next woman, her shirt such a garish shade of purple it offended the part of Crowley that was still a tailor.

The last woman, who had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, said, "Kate Spare."

"Good. Now, why did you summon me here?"

"Well," Natalie began, "we're Wiccan but we wanted to try something a little darker, so we thought we'd evoke a spirit from Kate's book."

This flippancy should have angered Crowley, but he just laughed. Besides, that only made the would-be witches even more nervous. "I do hope that decision was inspired by a drunken _Charmed _marathon, because if you made it in your right minds…Honestly, _you summoned the king of Hell _on a whim?"

"No, that's…that can't be right," said Laura, glancing at Kate fearfully. "The book says you're a common pact-making demon. See?" She put a book on the end table and pushed it toward him.

Crowley picked it up carefully, immediately recognizing it as a very old copy of the_ Lemegeton_, or _Lesser Key of Solomon_. Its cover was worn tan leather, and its smooth vellum pages were marked up with notes in different hands, in both Latin and English. One page near the end was marked with a modern bookmark, and Crowley turned it to find his sigil and a brief description of him. He had seen it before in more recent grimoires, but it was always strange.

Sometimes Crowley forgot he was a demon like any other.

"This is out of date," he said. "Things have changed quite a bit."

Jennifer shook her head with some hesitation. "Lucifer is in charge of Hell."

"Not anymore." Crowley frowned as he realized Kate looked less surprised than the others. "But you knew that already," he said, looking pointedly at her.

Kate shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"This is yours, yes?" He tossed the book to her, and Kate managed to catch it before it slammed into her stomach. "You didn't get that from Llewellyn. It's serious magic, and if you own it you must know a bit about that kind of magic."

Kate clutched the book tightly. "It's my sister's, all right? It belonged to our mother before that. I took it."

"You _stole_ it?" Laura interrupted. "Did you forget about the Threefold L—"

"That's quite enough, Glinda," said Crowley, then he looked back to Kate. "You were saying?"

"My sister is the witch," Kate sighed. "I've just dabbled in it. I wanted to try something from this book to see if it would work. I wasn't expecting…well, I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Don't flatter yourself," said Crowley. "I told you, I came willingly. Now, where is this sister of yours, the true witch?"

"Why?" She sounded nervous.

Crowley took a step forward, which made the other women flinch. "Perhaps you've forgotten who you're speaking to," he said, letting a bit of anger darken his voice. "Shall I remind you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Natalie reaching for something on a table behind her—a glass of water with a string of beads at the bottom.

Holy water.

Crowley's eyes narrowed. With a snap of his fingers, the glass was engulfed in fire, causing the water to evaporate rapidly. Natalie shrieked and dropped it, scattering flaming shards of glass across the floor. Another snap of Crowley's fingers and the flames went out in a puff of smoke.

"You ladies need to learn how to treat your guests," he growled. "Now, my dear Katie, what is your sister's name and where can I find her?"

Kate's blue eyes were wide. "Her name is Irene. She lives at 16 Bancroft Lane in Sunderland. But why—"

"Goodnight, then," said Crowley, disappearing.

* * *

Crowley reappeared in an office lined with bookshelves. A blond woman with large, old-fashioned glasses sat behind a desk in the middle of the room. Despite her ordinary appearance, Crowley could sense immediately that she was indeed a witch. He could smell power on her like a heady perfume. She looked up, startled at her sudden visitor.

"Evening, Irene," said Crowley, hands in his pockets.

She hesitated, brow creasing. "You're a demon."

"Indeed."

"Hmm." Irene gazed at him for a moment. "I'm not sure which demon you are, though. And since you already know who I am…"

"The name's Crowley." He smirked. "Try not to forget it."

"Crowley, right. The erstwhile crossroads demon turned king of Hell." Her features were plain and rather stern, but there was a cunning glint in her eyes. "I guess they do say it's better to reign in Hell than to—"

Crowley put up his hand. "Spare me. Read it two hundred years ago and I still don't like it. But literature aside, I came here because you're supposedly an experienced witch."

Irene shrugged. "Witch, magician, whatever. What I truly am is a left-hand path occultist, a student of Luciferian gnosis."

Crowley resisted rolling his eyes. "Pity your god is locked up."

"I don't worship Lucifer. I merely follow the dark, adversarial principles he represents."

"Please." Hell's fire and iron flashed through Crowley's mind. "You know nothing of darkness."

"Clearly I know something of use to you," she said. She seemed calm, as if she had nothing to fear. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"Don't overestimate your worth, darling. I _am_ looking for information, but it doesn't need to come from you."

Irene sat back and folded her arms. "Fair enough. What do you want to know?"

Satisfied that he had won, Crowley said, "I'm looking for something. A place. Perhaps you know a witch who could determine where it is."

"Have you tried Google Maps?"

"I doubt bloody _Google Maps_ shows the location of Purgatory," Crowley snarled.

He noticed a hint of surprise in Irene's expression before she could conceal it. "There's no such place. Human souls go to either Heaven or Hell."

"True, but it exists nonetheless."

She hesitated. "Well, it's possible that attempting to communicate with…whatever is in there might reveal how to get to it. A witch who's very skilled with scrying or divination might also be able to find it. The head of my order may be able to do it, or know someone who can. We're meeting tomorrow in the old chapel at the edge of town, on Summer Street. Our group is called the Order of the Black Thorn, and our leader's name is Terrence Marsh. He'll be there then and I'm sure he would love to meet you."

"Hmph. We'll see about that," Crowley said. "'Til then." Before she could reply, he was gone.

* * *

Crowley reappeared back in Ash Hill Park. Night had fallen, so the park was empty and dark except for the gold-tinted puddles of light cast by lampposts along the main path. He snapped his fingers and every light was extinguished in a crackle of sparks. The heavy darkness of a starless winter night settled over the park.

"Much better," said Crowley. Then he whistled—a sharp, clear sound that rang out along the empty pathway.

With a flash of red light, his hound appeared. He was nearly five feet tall at the shoulders, with black fur that seemed to absorb all light, and dark eyes that glinted scarlet. He bounded toward Crowley, tongue lolling out past razor teeth.

A smile spread across Crowley's face as the hound nuzzled his hand. "Good pup," he said. "Shall we go for a walk?" Crowley slid his hands into his pockets and headed off down the path, and the hound sauntered along beside him. As they walked, a few snowflakes began to fall, white as death and cold against his skin.

Still, at that moment, he thought that everything might turn out all right.


	3. The Order of the Black Thorn

Crowley spent most of the next day in his office in Hell, catching up on paperwork, reviewing security with the sufficiently chastised Temeluchus, and picking up a fresh suit and his long wool coat. After that, he thought that some research on the Order of the Black Thorn was necessary. A bit of web browsing on his iPhone revealed nothing except for a site coated in inverted pentagrams, red text, nauseating music, and little actual information. Since that had been useless, Crowley stopped by one of the nicer university libraries near Boston to see what he could find.

"Hello," he said to the reference librarian, affecting the demeanor of a shy human. "May I please use the archives?"

"What for?" the librarian snapped. He was elderly, wearing a tweed jacket, and clearly saw himself as the Cerberus of the stacks.

"Well, I'm writing a book on occult groups in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century New England. I heard your archives were some of the best in the state."

"It had better not be some tripe about the Salem Witch Trials." He glared at Crowley over his glasses. "Do you have any idea how sick and tired I am of answering questions about the Salem Witch Trials?"

"I can imagine," said Crowley, keeping his expression very serious. "And no, that's not what I'm researching. Now, may I use the archives?"

"Fine, yes, go ahead," the librarian grumbled. "But be careful!"

Crowley slipped past him into the stacks, and smiled as he dropped character. Some humans were just too precious. He spent the next few hours picking through old letters, records, and miscellaneous documents, and fortunately was able to come up with some useful information.

Apparently, the Order of the Black Thorn had been established in the late 1700s. It had never grown beyond twenty members across New England, but despite this it had persisted for over two hundred years. Although Crowley could find little referring to their actual beliefs, everything he did find suggested that they were a legitimate witches' organization. With the exception of their interest in "Luciferian gnosis" mentioned by Irene Spare, they seemed fine. Of course, if the O.B.T. had any real involvement with Lucifer, Crowley would have heard about it. Crowley also discovered that both the Spare and Marsh families had lived in New England for generations, and were in fact two of the founding families of the Order.

It all seemed copacetic.

Still, the only way to determine if they could actually help him find Purgatory was to meet with them. Even if they could not help directly, they might be able to point him toward people who could.

Satisfied, Crowley left the archives—through the door, so as not to give the librarian a heart attack—then vanished and reappeared on Summer Street in Sunderland. He appeared at the edge of the forest near the chapel so that he could survey it from a safe distance. Crowley was entirely confident in his ability to defend himself, but he had not survived for 350 years by being impetuous.

The chapel was a plain, white, mundane-looking building that resembled most Protestant churches in the region. A thin layer of snow coated the ground around it, glowing faintly in the fading light, broken only by tire marks from the several cars parked in its small lot. Crowley guessed about fifteen people were inside the chapel, having already begun their meeting. He had been planning to wait until they were finished before going in, anyhow. Magical workings used up energy, and that way the witches would not be at peak form by the time he spoke to them—which would work to his advantage if things went badly. In the meantime, he was out of sight of…

Crowley glanced up to see a crow sitting on a tree branch above him, looking at him pointedly with its glassy black eyes. Sighing, Crowley snapped his fingers. The branch broke suddenly, and the crow fell a few feet before flapping away with a disgruntled squawk. "Forgot about familiars," Crowley muttered. "Bloody witches."

Within a half hour, people started milling out of the chapel. Irene Spare was not among them, so Crowley assumed she was still inside, waiting for him to arrive. Since most everyone else had left, Crowley decided it was time to go in. He reappeared just inside the chapel.

It was a single large room with a wood-paneled vaulted ceiling, church pews, and a solid red stained-glass window in the back wall. An altar below the window was covered with candles, an empty red-tinged bowl at its center. The air smelled of incense and iron, and hummed with unmistakable power. An auburn-haired man, dressed in black, stood in front of the altar but facing the door, Irene at his side.

"Ah," he said, "you must be Crowley. Please, come in."

Crowley took a few steps forward. "You're Terrence Marsh, then."

"Yes. And I hear you've already met Irene." He looked Crowley up and down. "Huh. I haven't seen a demon in some time. We don't evoke them, you know—it's bad manners. Might I ask what color your eyes are?"

Crowley just glared at him.

"…Never mind. Curiosity and all that. Well, can I get you anything? Wine, maybe?"

"No," said Crowley. Witch's domains were like the realm of faerie, he thought—one should never touch anything edible there. Preferably, one should not touch anything there at all. "I'd rather get to business."

Terrence nodded, but his dark eyes were cold. "You don't trust us. I guess I don't blame you. Still, it seems pretty strange to ask things of people without even offering them common courtesy. After all, everything comes at a price. You of all people should know that."

"Oh?" Crowley smiled faintly. "How presumptuous. I fully intend to compensate you for services rendered—once they're rendered."

"Of _course_ you do," Irene drawled, but a look from Terrence silenced her.

"Crowley is right," he said slowly. "I'm used to being in charge of people, so I forgot myself for a moment there. I meant no offense."

"Hmph." Crowley was hesitant. It was hard to figure out what these two actually thought of him, because they were quite difficult to read, like most experienced witches. "So, do you know of a way to find Purgatory?"

"Possibly, but it depends," said Terrence. "You need to tell me if there are spirits or souls there."

"There are. Monsters' souls."

Terrence raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. I'd never really thought about what happens to them. Interesting."

"Shouldn't you be calling it Tartarus or something, then?" Irene asked. The candlelight reflecting off her glasses obscured her eyes. "I assume you learned Greek mythology."

"Learned from experience, dear," said Crowley. "They're as petty and contentious as any family, but more incestuous."

"Okay, well, anyway," said Terrence, "there are monsters' souls there. That's helpful. We can summon one of them like you'd summon a ghost or any other spirit."

Crowley just looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Forget it."

Terrence raised an eyebrow."What do you mean? It's a pretty simple ritual, it won't be a problem."

"I know it is," Crowley snapped. "I could do it myself without any special magic. The problem is, the monster won't tell you anything once you summon it. They're impossible, trust me. I'm not wasting any more time."

"But that's not what I'm suggesting," said Terrence, taking a step forward. "If we summon a monster's soul, I can use magic to determine where it came from. Then you'll know where Purgatory is."

Crowley hesitated, still frowning. It was plausible, but the whole thing had put him in an ill mood. "I take it I'll need something belonging to a dead monster for this to work."

"Yes. The ritual will be easier with a more powerful monster, but I can't imagine something from one of them will be too difficult for you to procure."

"Maybe, maybe not. I also don't know if your locating ritual will work. The age of your organization may only mean that it's evolved into a social club for your families, without any real power. I'll go along with it for—"

"No real power, huh?" Terrence stretched out his arms and the candles on the altar went out, leaving the chapel entirely dark. Suddenly waves of violet flame shot up from the base of each wall until they licked the ceiling ravenously. He flipped his hands palm-side down, and the fire vanished as the candles reignited.

"You can't impress me," Crowley smirked. "You forget that true power does not need to prove itself."

"Maybe not," Terrence grumbled, "but I get tired of being doubted. Witches are a joke in popular culture, and hunters are more than happy to use our rituals and methods while mocking us. I figured you were that way."

"_Don't_ compare me to hunters," Crowley growled.

Terrence shrugged. "Fine, I won't. But…shouldn't you be nicer, since we're left-hand path witches and all?"

"Wrong again, love. The only thing worse than comparing me to a hunter is mistaking me for a nice person."

"But you did choose to work with us, right?"

"Actually," Irene interrupted, "he found us because my hare-brained sister summoned him."

Terrence turned and glared at her. "And how did _that_ happen?"

"I don't know. She stole my _Lesser_ _Key_."

"Are you kidding, Irene? You have some dangerous books, don't you have wards on them?"

"Yes, but apparently—"

"Will you two get this sorted later?" Crowley's eyes narrowed in disgust.

The two humans glared at each other. "Fine," said Terrence.

"So, will you bring us something belonging to a dead monster, or what?" Irene asked.

Crowley thought for a moment. Presumably the prison in Missouri had already been burnt down, ruling that out. But then, that overachiever Temeluchus had been hunting an alpha rugaru. That would be a good place to start. "Yes," he said. "Be ready for the ritual in twenty-four hours."

"I might need to get a few…" Terrence trailed off at the look in Crowley's eyes. "All right, tomorrow night it is."

"Splendid," Crowley smiled, and disappeared.

He reappeared back at the forest's edge, and took a deep breath of the cold, pine-scented air which was especially pleasant after the oppressive atmosphere in the chapel. Crowley watched as the only remaining light inside it went out, and Irene and Terrence walked out into the parking lot.

"It'll be fine," Irene was saying. "I've dealt with demons more recently than you have, and this is just how they are."

"Dealt with them? Please tell me you didn't—"

"Of course I didn't, Terry. Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"No, I was just checking. Anyway, do you know anything else about this Crowley?"

Crowley could see her shrug despite the darkness. "Not really. My usual contact said that he's ruthless and ambitious, but that's about it. She sounded scared of him."

"Who isn't scared of their boss?" Terrence sighed. "We'll go along with his plan, then. We don't have much to lose."

"Only everything," Irene quipped as she got into her car. As she pulled away, her headlights swept toward where Crowley was standing, but he vanished before they could reach him.


	4. A Monstrous Errand

"…Hello, uh, sir."

"Evening, Temeluchus," said Crowley. He was sitting in a high-class bar in New York City, sipping scotch. The décor was tasteful, the humans there more tolerable than most. He would have preferred to be in a house, but he had not bothered to get a new one since Lucifer's minions had burnt his. Being decentralized was safer, anyway.

"Evening, sir." Temeluchus was clearly nervous, which Crowley relished. "We caught a few loyalists today, just so you know. Everything's going pretty well."

"Hmm. Actually, I wanted to discuss that rugaru of yours."

"Oh. Uh, sir…I thought we already…went over that?"

"Did we, now?"

Silence.

Crowley stifled a laugh. "Relax. Turns out I need to find the thing after all. Where'd you think it was?"

Temeluchus cleared his throat. "Oh, well, it looked like he was living in the Black Bayou wildlife refuge south of Monroe, Louisiana."

"The wildlife ref…" Crowley felt his good mood fading as he pictured a swamp swarming with unpleasant creatures. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, it's not too bad, really. I poked around there myself, there are like raised paths and—"

"It's a bloody swamp, Temeluchus," Crowley snapped. "It can't be anything but bad."

"Well, I know exactly where he was living, sir. You wouldn't have to traipse around. I was about to send a team in there myself when…you know."

"When I told you to get back to the work you're supposed to be doing? How tragic." Crowley drank the last of his scotch. "So, where was he, exactly?"

"I can email you the map of the refuge. I marked where I thought his lair was."

"Go ahead." A melodic chirp from his iPhone signaled that the map had arrived. "All right, well, I'm off. Fire, yes?"

"To kill them? Yes, sir. There's no way to know if it will be enough to kill the alpha without trying, but I haven't heard anything to suggest it wouldn't." Temeluchus hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want help, sir? I'd be glad to—"

"No, I'd rather not." Crowley thought Temeluchus was too nice. He was not sure if the demon was just trying too hard, or if he was plotting to ingratiate himself with his superiors and perhaps take their place. The latter would be typical—Crowley had certainly done it himself. "Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye, si—"

Crowley hung up before Temeluchus could finish. He rotated the phone and pulled up the map of the wildlife reserve. Temeluchus had circled a small area with red ink. Sighing, Crowley got up, walked into a back hall out of sight of the bar's patrons, and vanished.

* * *

The instant he reappeared, Crowley felt the hot, humid air like weights in his lungs, like drowning. Taking a deep breath, he loosened his tie and glanced around. He was on a wooden path above dark, murky water, and surrounded by tall cypress trees. The darkness and near-silence, broken only by a faint hum of insects, was a jarring contrast to the New York bar where he had been only a moment before. Crowley pulled out his iPhone and squinted at the bright screen to check his map. The rugaru's nest was supposed to be a few yards to his left, so he slipped his phone back into his pocket and headed off in that direction.

In a few moments he reached the spot Temeluchus had marked. At first he saw nothing, but then he noticed a larger than normal gap between two roots at the bottom of a tree. Leaning down to peer into the darkness, he realized that there was a small wooden door partly hidden by the roots and vegetation. Thinking it would be quieter than trying to unearth the door, Crowley teleported just inside.

Crowley found himself in a dark room with dirt walls, rather like a root cellar. The air was musty and damp, with a rotten tinge to it. At the end of the room were two openings into crude hallways, continuing into what Crowley imagined were endless dank warrens beneath the swamp.

It was not an encouraging prospect.

He stood still for a few minutes, listening and smelling the air. The smell coming from the right-hand path was a bit worse, and he thought he could hear breathing from far off. Perhaps the creature was that way.

Deciding that teleporting was quieter and less liable to stain his boots, Crowley reappeared further down that tunnel. The rottenness in the air there was stronger, but the darkness had lessened, replaced by a strange, sickly yellow glow. Remaining very still, he listened again. He could definitely hear breathing coming from down a side tunnel that veered off to the left. Carefully he took a few steps in that direction and peered around the corner to see that the tunnel went on in a fairly straight line until it seemed to widen at the end, possibly into a room. Now that he was further down in the rugaru's warrens, he could hear a few other sounds like an odd scampering noise, but the breathing remained constant.

Crowley reappeared in the room at the end of the tunnel. The room was lined with cabinetry and wooden racks, all coated in dust and grime. Various knives and strange metal implements hung from the racks. Two large metal chests sat near one wall, cold emanating from them. The air was thick and fetid, the stench so strong it nearly overpowered his other senses. For a moment, Crowley thought he was alone.

A choked gasping sound came from Crowley's left. He spun around to see what looked like a tall human male, upright but strapped to a series of boards so his limbs were spread out. The man's body was filthy, his black hair matted. Crowley took a hesitant step forward to see that large pieces of the man's flesh on his legs and sides were missing, leaving bones and organs visible. An oddly clean-looking IV stand gleamed silver beside him, feeding some type of liquid into his body through a thin tube. Whatever it was, clearly the man would be dead without it. His brown eyes, stark against his pale skin, were wild and pleading.

_Monsters_, Crowley thought, his lip curling in instinctual revulsion. "Is the creature here?" he asked quietly.

The man managed to nod.

"Good. Is he alone?"

The man looked unsure.

"Very well."

"Please," the man coughed, trying to speak. "P…please…kill me."

Crowley thought for a moment. He was not compassionate by nature, but he did not like the idea of leaving the rugaru's captive in that state. "I can do you one better. I can heal your body and mind completely, and give you ten whole years 'til I collect your soul. How does that sound?"

"Okay," he said without hesitation.

"Splendid," Crowley smiled. He never missed an opportunity to dabble in his old line of work. "It's sealed with a kiss. Hope you don't mind."

The man closed his eyes.

Crowley moved closer and kissed him gingerly. The client's condition made no difference—when Crowley sealed a deal, all he ever tasted was power. He felt the familiar faint jolt as his end of the deal was completed. Opening his eyes, Crowley took a step backward to see that the man was fully healed and clean, released from his restraints, and in clean clothing.

The man gasped as he looked down at his body. His eyes were wide, but only with astonishment as all fear and desperation had vanished from them. "Thank you so much," he spluttered.

"Shh," Crowley hissed. "Now get out of here before he finds out his dinner's been canceled."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me twice," he said, lowering his voice. "But thank you, truly, whoever the hell you are. And please, if you're ever in New Orleans, look me up. I'm a book dealer—Paul Fallan's the name. I owe you."

"Hmph. You'll pay me back soon enough. Now _out_!"

"Yes sir!" Fallan smiled, and ran off toward the start of the tunnels, making far too much noise as he went.

Crowley shrugged. He gave up on teleporting and walked down the tunnel, finding himself in the dark once more. Following the rotten scent in the air, he walked for several minutes, the tunnels getting larger and damper as he went. Finally he saw an opening up ahead at the edge of what looked like a large room, with the same yellow glow as one of the previous tunnels. From the smell and strange scratching noises, he knew the rugaru was inside. Straightening his tie, Crowley walked through the opening.

The room was oval-shaped, its walls coated in a yellow slimy substance, a rivulet of sluggish water cutting through the floor. At its center, sitting on what looked like the remains of an armchair, was the alpha rugaru. He was very tall and gaunt with mottled skin, fingers longer than any human's. The whites of his eyes were blood red, oozing into yellow irises and tiny pupils. Four more rugarus stood beside him, glowering.

"Evening," said Crowley.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to find your way down here," said the alpha. His voice was low, gurgling, and entirely inhuman.

"Had to look around the place first. It's…quaint." Crowley smiled, studying the alpha. He noticed a ring on the alpha's bony finger—just the sort of item the Order could use in their locating spell. "Such bold décor choices. Love the wall treatment in here, too. Is it saliva, or…?"

"What do you want, little demon?" the alpha growled.

"I'm sorry, are you in a hurry? Oh, are you mad because I set your dinner free?"

The alpha shrugged in an oddly jerky motion. "It is insignificant. Their herds are numberless, though soon we shall devour them all."

Crowley thought of the increase in monster activity, how so many types of monsters were multiplying and mobilizing. He assumed they intended to take on humanity—something that would disrupt Hell's business and make life unpleasant all around. "Is that what your Father wants you to do?"

The alpha grinned, his mouth spreading unnaturally wide, teeth gleaming within. "Our Father and Mother, who stand incorruptible since the dawn of time. Soon She will come to feast upon the human cattle and remake the world in Her dread image."

"Oh, _naturally_."

"Mock me if you wish, little demon. Your kind's turn will come after the humans are dead."

"Sorry, mate," said Crowley, his green eyes cold. "Not going to happen."

"You are lower than a human. You are nothing but a corrupted soul, a glorified ghost. I would pity you if I deigned to such things."

"And I would be offended if I gave a fig what monsters think of me."

The alpha growled. "Then I am sure you will not mind if my children tear you apart." He leaned forward slightly, fingernails extending like cat's claws. The four other rugarus bounded at Crowley, claws flashing, sharp yellow teeth bared.

Crowley smiled and snapped his fingers. Instantly a ring of flame materialized around him and shot outward toward the rugarus in an eight-foot wall of searing heat. The lesser monsters screamed and roared, their bodies engulfed in fire. The alpha did not flinch as the flames passed over and beyond him, but stared straight at Crowley with his blood-rimmed eyes.

"You asked about the coating on the walls?" said the alpha, leaning back in his decrepit chair. "It coats my skin as well, and protects against fire. My kind can adapt, you know."

Crowley took a step forward. "You're not a survivor, you pathetic animal. Not a real one. You're nothing but a second-rate freak of nature more concerned with filling your gullet and destroying mindlessly than accomplishing anything of substance. So don't insult me with your arrogant delusions. You monsters will never rule this world, and you know why?"

"Why, demon?" The alpha was still smiling, but anger seethed in his eyes.

"Because you're not nearly clever enough." Crowley stretched out his arm toward the alpha and narrowed his eyes.

The alpha frowned and coughed, and a bit of black smoke trailed out from between his jagged teeth. Suddenly he shrieked as flames poured from his mouth, his skin peeling and blackening. Crowley's smile faded as he watched the rugaru burned to death in front of him. Although he wanted the monster dead, something about it nagged at him like a reminder of a forgotten dream. Shrugging off the feeling, he snatched the rugaru's ring from his charred finger and vanished.


	5. Loyal Blood

The rugaru's ring still in his hand, Crowley appeared near the back of the Order's chapel. He strode forward, expecting to see the O.B.T. members already gathered and waiting to conduct their locating spell.

The chapel was empty.

Crowley frowned and pulled out his iPhone to check the time. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Terrence Marsh had suggested the spell, so at least a few of the witches should have arrived. He put his phone and the ring in his pocket and glanced around. The chapel looked exactly as it had the last time he was there, and he could not hear anything unusual, either. Still, he knew instinctively that something was amiss. Instead of waiting to see who or what would show up, Crowley decided to drop by Irene Spare's house, since he did not know where any of the other O.B.T. members lived.

Crowley reappeared just inside Irene's front door, but slightly away from the doormat in case she had a devil's trap there. The house was quiet and there were no signs of anything being wrong. He noticed some light and a bit of noise from what he assumed was the living room, so Crowley headed down a hallway in that direction. "Irene," he called, approaching the room carefully, still on high alert. He rounded the corner to see an ordinary living room and Irene standing in front of a brick fireplace.

"Hello, Crowley," she said as she turned around. Her long blond hair was pulled back, eyes entirely hidden by the fire reflecting off her glasses. "I thought I sensed you here."

"How very creepy of you." Crowley noticed she was holding a small black box. It seemed of no significance, but for some reason it unnerved him. "Tell me, why aren't you at the chapel? I believe we had an appointment."

"Oh, we do." Smiling, Irene threw the black box into the fireplace. Instantly the flames themselves turned black. Crowley felt a sudden wave of searing pain and before he could move columns of dark fire shot up around him like bars. He blinked, expecting to teleport, but found to his surprise that he was trapped.

"You really need to work on your manners," Crowley smiled, but his mind was working rapidly. He was not sure what exactly had happened.

"And _you_ need to brush up on your goetic magic," Irene snapped. "Have you forgotten the black box curse from such works as the _Lemegeton_? Well, it isn't recorded in its entirety in any common grimoire, but my knowledge doesn't come only from books. Your seal is inside the box, along with various herbs and such like asafoetida and aglaophotis. While it remains in the fire, you are under my authority."

Crowley cleared his throat as the initial pain faded. He did vaguely remember the ritual, but it was so rarely used in comparison to traps, exorcisms, and holy water it had never been a major concern. He himself had not faced it before. "Your authority, hmm?"

"Yes," Irene smiled. "And don't bother trying to escape or summon any help. None of your powers will work outside of that little bubble you're trapped in. You're not going anywhere until I release you."

"Lovely." He paused for a moment, trying to call his hound, or move something in the room, or anything, but nothing worked. "Now, would you mind explaining what exactly it is you want, so we can get this over with?"

"You're a usurper, Crowley. An upstart who betrayed your lord to seize power for yourself. I'm turning you over to people who serve the true king of Hell."

Crowley felt as if a cold hand was tightening around his throat. "Is that so?"

"The demons I've worked with throughout my career as an occultist are loyal to Lucifer, just as I am. That's why I'd heard of you, although I had no idea I'd run into you someday." Her eyes narrowed. "They're going to kill you, and then they're going to set our lord free."

"Just like that, eh? It's really not so simple, you know. Your _lord_ is locked up pretty tight. It will take more than a ragtag bunch of loyalists to get him out."

"It doesn't matter. Lucifer will get out one way or another, and soon. He is prince of the powers of the air and the true god of this world. He's meant to fight Heaven and take dominion over the earth, and it _will_ happen."

"Lot of good that'll do you," said Crowley. "Lucifer isn't god of anything. He's a petulant child throwing a tantrum because daddy didn't let him have his way. But unlike a child, his tantrums have body counts in the millions. That includes you, love. He'll destroy every human being and demon in existence if he can. Do you really think he'll care if you have some tiny part in breaking him out a second time?"

"I don't care what happens to me," Irene shrugged, walking over to a side table. "I'm prepared to sacrifice whatever I need to for him. Besides, you're wrong about Lucifer. He is the Morning Star, the wisest and most glorious of all beings. It will take fire and destruction, yes, but he will remake the world."

Crowley shook his head, remembering the rugaru's words. "What is _with_ people and this "remake the world" nonsense? I'd rather make do in the world we have than chance someone else's idea of paradise."

"That's because you're a parasite with no faith and no higher goals than self-advancement," Irene snapped. She drew a sigil in chalk on the side table, then took candles and a bowl from its drawer and arranged them on top. "I'd try to sway you back to Lucifer's side, but there's no point since he would destroy you either way for what you've done. It _is_ a pity, since you're very talented, but you certainly deserve it."

"Oh, how kind of you." Crowley tried moving the box out of the fire through telekinesis, but it was no use. He decided his best option was escaping as soon as the demons Irene summoned showed up, when she would have to let him out so they could take him. Of course, he would snap Irene's neck first. "So, I take it you did something to your coven mates?"

"Not really," she replied, emptying a jar of blood into the bowl in front of her. "I put a warding spell on the chapel to keep them away. I knew when you showed up and no one was there you'd eventually come here." She shook her head. "They're decent witches, but it's too bad none of them follow Lucifer the way I do. I've always been the deepest and strongest among them. But I wouldn't worry about them. Your ride will be here any—"

Suddenly Irene turned, as if she had heard a noise. Crowley looked where she had to see Irene's sister Kate, the woman responsible for summoning him in the first place, walk through the door.

"A family reunion," Crowley grumbled. "How charming."

"What the hell are you doing to him?" Kate demanded, gesturing to Crowley.

"Kate." Irene smiled, but there was no kindness in her eyes. "How nice of you to drop in unannounced. You have always been a nuisance like that—although I guess I should thank you, since if you hadn't stolen my book Crowley wouldn't be here."

"He came willingly," said Kate.

"I know, and what a surprise that was! I didn't bother evoking him because I knew he'd have wards against it. I never guessed he'd actually come of his own volition. I thought he was smarter than that."

Crowley cleared his throat. "I wouldn't start making judgments about intelligence if I were you, Irene."

"Well, you're the one in a cage," she snapped. "Anyway, sis, this really isn't a good time. I'm expecting guests in a few minutes."

"Guests? What, your demon buddies?" Kate shook her head. "You know they're not your friends, right? They're using you because you serve the same master, but that's it. You're not their equal. Even _I_ know how to deal with demons better than you do."

"Oh really? How's that?"

"By _dealing_ with them. Mutually beneficial business transactions. Not acting like they're working with you because of what a great and special witch you are."

Crowley frowned, studying Kate. The woman was more clever than he had thought upon meeting her initially. Her talk about deals suggested that she had looked into them—perhaps she had deliberately chosen him out of the various demons in the _Lemegeton_, since Irene's copy still listed him as a crossroads demon.

Irene smiled. "As I told Crowley here, I am quite content being Lucifer's tool. I'm happy with any role I can play in giving him back his throne."

"I'm not going to let you do that." Kate raised a gloved hand to reveal she was holding a gun, which startled both her sister and Crowley.

Irene masked her surprise with a laugh. "I know we have a rough relationship, sis, but you _cannot_ be serious."

"I am serious," said Kate, her blue eyes cold. "Maybe you missed it, but things were pretty bad the last time the apocalypse happened, and Lucifer didn't even win. I get that you're not the white-light-and-unicorns type. Neither am I. But unleashing the Devil on earth—especially after seeing what that resulted in the last time—is just too much."

"You're pathetic." Irene frowned and waved her hand. The gun jerked toward the right, but stayed firmly in Kate's hand. Irene's eyes widened.

Kate trained the gun back on her sister. "I've been practicing my magic a lot. I'm still not as strong as I could be, but I will be soon."

Irene snarled and swung her arm at her sister, sending out a shockwave that flung Kate back against the wall. Irene started forward but Kate fired her gun, hitting Irene in the stomach. Irene fell back, knocking over her side table, the blood in the bowl atop it splashing violently onto the wall. She coughed, blood on her lips, blood from the large wound in her abdomen seeping outward into her pale shirt. Kate walked forward, tears streaming down her face. She pressed the gun barrel against Irene's forehead. "I'm sorry," she said, and pulled the trigger.

Crowley waited for a few moments as Kate tossed the gun beside her sister's body and stood there in silence. He had been somewhat suspicious of Irene, but had never expected anything quite like that to happen.

Finally, Kate turned to him and said, "So…I want to make a deal."

"I suspected as much. I assume that's why you called me in the first place. What was the plan before? Seal your contract with me in front of all your fellow spell-of-the-month club members?"

"Well, no. I wanted to see what you were like first, before I decided to deal with you specifically. I realize now that's not the way I should have done things."

"Hmph." Crowley glanced at the box in the fireplace. "Fine. But first, would you mind letting me out of here?"

"That's the thing." She hesitated nervously. "I was planning to give you my soul, but right now you're at a disadvantage. How about instead I let you out in exchange for you giving me what I want?"

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "Katie darling, first of all, I haven't been stuck here nearly long enough to be that desperate. Second, part of the power to fulfill a contract comes from the soul. If I did whatever it is you want without getting a soul in exchange, I'd actually be _losing_ something even if you let me out, and that is not going to happen. Understood?"

"Okay," Kate shrugged. "It was a long shot. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask for an extra long contract, though, considering you'll be getting my soul plus freedom from this trap…thing."

"How long are we talking here?"

"Maybe twenty years?"

Crowley stifled a laugh. "Let me see, ah…_no_."

"But what difference does it make? You'll still have my soul."

"Look," said Crowley, rolling his eyes, "I admire your opportunism. Truly. I'll give you as many years as is reasonable. But I'm not talking specific terms with you until I know what you want and you _get me out of this sodding trap_."

"All right, fine. But don't you disappear yet." Kate picked up a poker and dragged the box out of the fire. Immediately the dark flames surrounding Crowley vanished, and he felt the choking pressure around his throat disappear. He breathed out and moved a few steps, just to be certain he could.

"I'll take that," he said as he snatched the box from the hearth. The magic that had emanated from it before had faded, presumably due to Irene's death. He yanked it open, dumped the contents into the fire, then tossed the box onto a sofa.

"But wait, won't that hurt you?" Kate frowned suddenly. "Your seal was in there."

"If burning a demon's sigil could kill them we'd all be dead, what with all the book-burnings you people seem to love so much." Crowley brushed off his coat. "Now, business."

"Right." She pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear, slightly more anxious now that Crowley was standing right in front of her. "I would like to be a powerful witch. Stronger than…_she_ ever was. I've worked hard at it but I just don't have the knack. Plus the world needs protecting and I think with power like that I could do a better job of it."

"A powerful witch, hmm? Not very original, but doable. Is that all?"

"Well…I don't want to get in trouble for _this_." Kate gestured to her sister's body.

"Fine, witch powers with a side helping of law evasion. Those aren't small thing to ask for, you know."

Kate sighed. "Maybe fifteen years, then? I mean, I fully expect to go to Hell when I die, even without this deal, but I'd rather have it be later than sooner."

Crowley smiled faintly. "With the way things are going I'm afraid none of us will have that luxury. But fine, whatever, fifteen years it is. It's generous, but I'm in a good mood. Besides, if you die before then you're still mine anyway."

"Okay." She hesitated. "So…I have to seal it with a kiss, right?"

"Naturally. Is that going to be a problem or—" Before Crowley could finish, Kate leaned in and kissed him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck. It was more forceful than he had expected, and even after he felt the distinct surge of power that meant her contract was fulfilled she still lingered for a moment.

Kate took a step back, blushing. "Sorry, that…I'm a little awkward."

Crowley laughed. "Trust me, it wasn't the worst I've had—and you're not even my type." He straightened his tie. "Well, I imagine several rather confused O.B.T. members are hanging about the chapel by now, and I've got a ritual that needs doing. How would you like to take your new powers for a spin?"


End file.
